Kill You Me
by Vcorrigan
Summary: Taboo is a terrible thing, subcliques and highschool dramatics. Play your hand and throw down an ace, you can either lose big points or gain foundation to a better life.


_Corrie does not own South Park, nor wishes to engage in the act of lawsuits she will most likely lose over gay stories. This is for entertainment purposes only, should you read and enjoy, or print and burn for sick pyro satisfaction. 'kay? 'Kay._

_This is a Slash story. Featuring Mark Cotswald and Redgoth aka "Simon". Being gay. Together. Either turn away now in horror and choices in pairings, or delve into the twsted mind of me. Go on, you know you wanna._

* * *

You know how different people think different things about you? Like, take for instance a cheerleader. On one end of the spectrum, the cheersquad loves the girl, thinks her outfits are "sooo cute", her personality is awesome and she's got skills. The jocks and boys love her because she's easy, shows off a lot of tit, likes to get her ass smacked, and carries cherry-flavoured condoms. Normal people, other girls that aren't in the spotlight, think this cheerleader is a skank with too short-skirts that show too much thong and needs to get run over by a train.

Like BeBe, she's hot, I mean she's hot. Long blonde hair, boobilicious, nice figure, tight ass, shirts that cut too low and ride too high, pants that hit at the waist and show hipbones while being tight enough to wear like a second skin…she's hot. Knows how to work her body to best advantage and ensnare any guy, old or young. A simple flip of her hair, lowered eyelids, coy smile, brush of her hips against a guy's crotch…oh, you know no release. And the other girls hate her for knowing how to turn a guy on like that, start nasty rumours, that probably are actually true. 'Cause let's be honest, despite the good looks and charm, she is a slut. Open for anything willing to have a quick bathroom stall prod and hump, even if it's a janitor. She's nasteh in that pretty, popular kind of way.

Anyway, yeah, so I kind of got off topic there. What you gain from all of that is people look at you differently because everyone thinks their own way. Back to the story…

I had this friend in my clique, Henrietta. Cool girl, wrote poems, lyrics, mighty-fine keyboardist and generally, the clique wouldn't be the same without her. Yeah, we were all emo Goths, hated the world, were rabid touchy-feely, but we were still all friends.

So like I was saying, in seventh grade she asked me out, and you know, it was just like, "why not?" So we did the couple thing, but not the real couple thing, the insecure, we-have-no-idea-what-we're-doing one. Held hands, all that jazz, then we just didn't go out any more and it didn't really matter to either of us. We were just experimenting to begin with, didn't exactly want to do each other so we just were friends again, smoking in the back of school and talking about our favourite bands.

Then the summer of ninth grade went by—yeah, the years between then don't matter—and she came back from vacation in Florence, Italy, psyched and shit. It was an unusual change to the normally monotoned Henrietta from two months before. And she asked me out again, in a rather rough manner; by forcing her tongue inside my mouth while groping my ass. It was embarrassing, because Fredrick was there and looked absolutely dumbfounded. I couldn't believe it, Henrietta was being so dominate and…well, horny.

Conclusion; she wanted to make Fredrick jealous. It was no secret she'd been crushing on him, he was tall, pale, handsom, a year older then us and just a good guy. He was sweet when he wanted, or could be a real badass, and had a variety of friends. He was like, the cheerleader of Goths, knew how to work it so any girl of any clique would want him, and didn't care what he did. The only difference would be he wasn't a slut and didn't carry around condoms.

But I agreed to her fanciful jealousy trick, and we were a real couple. We had tongue wars, snogged like we were trying to see who could last the longest without passing out, but it didn't mean anything. She wanted to made Fredrick jealous instead of just be normal and ask him out, and I was just helping her achieve her sick twisted goal for the Hell of it. There was no emotion behind the kisses, the caresses; she didn't really want to lean on me during lunch, and I surely didn't want to braid her hair. But we played the fake couple thing well, walking in the halls together, kissing hard against the wall, shotgunning at lunch just to see Fredrick's reaction, which never changed.

So that's where I stood going into second semester art class, where all the Goth kids, misfits, punks went to pour out their emotional hearts on canvas. Luckily Henrietta was in a different period, but Fredrick was with me. Of course, not really, we got assigned seats alphabetically and although I should have been sitting by him, the school screwed up my last name and instead of being "Kaufmann" like it should, they spelled it "Caufmann." So I'm at a table with Eric Cartman, Clyde Donovan, Mark Cotswalds, and myself.

Eric and Clyde, they're unimportant, the former skips and disappears out to lunch or (amazingly) gym, and Clyde…well, he's just out there. Weird kid, Donovan is. Who I'm focused on is Mark, geeky ex-baseball player. Tall, lanky, wide shoulders, broad chest, sculpted legs, perfect timed runner and an excellent third base player, if he hadn't thrown out his shoulder. Angular face framed in frothy curly hair, olive eyes flecked in gold, bright and bitter combined with long, girly lashes. He's handsome, but borders the line of feminine beauty, no matter how he acts or what he does.

He became the object of my art on several occasions. Having him across from me, it was only natural to sketch him. The feminine planes of his face, soft eyes, yet the masculine jaw line and angles. No matter how hard I tried, or the amount of paper I wasted, I could never get it right.

Anyway, I got off topic. Mark was an absolutely awesome artist. Could capture such atmosphere, tell a story with his work, and like he was often a model for me, I became a model for him. He always took such care, casting the illusion of being a depressed, cutting, emo kid in the first few images, and then flustered, threw them out to start with the real me, without feeling for my reputation. Instead of the dreary, sad sort of look I'd had in the other images, these new ones showed me at my best; bored senseless. And it was humourous to see what I did through someone else's eyes, like chew on my pencil, run fingers through my hair, fiddle with earrings or my rainbow tongue ring, and what got me was how I always had a hand near my face doing something. The truly amazing part was the time and detail he used to get my eyes right, and eyemakeup. How he blended the coloured pencils, creating the glittering, liquid look was simply amazing, and made him the best in the class.

So that's where it all began, being art buddies, chatting and sharing supplies, finding common interest when in the classroom. But outside of room 333 in the practical arts department of campus, we gave each other acknowledging nods but nothing more. Until _that_ day.

"_That_ day" is the day we broke taboo. It was a Tuesday, at lunch, and Henrietta was playing the lover, cuddling and sitting in my lap, skirt around her waist showing off her black lacey panties, playing with my hair and giving me a devilish smile as she went on about my skills in bed. A glance to Fredrick would find him tense, gnawing on the end of his cigarette in a desperate attempt to try to nod it off casually, but you could see he was really worked up about it. It was a vicious playing field, one Henrietta knew well, but irritated me to be involved.

"Yes, Simon is such a _dog_ under the covers! But it's amazing, the sadistic tendencies," she crooned, kissing the corner of my mouth with a pleased smile, looking over to Fredrick. "And he's so—"

By then I'd had enough and placed a finger on her lips. "Hush, don't kiss and tell," I said with a velvety purr, letting my hand fall. She pulled back, pouting, and crossed her arms.

"But I was just—"

"He has a dick and knows about sex, I'm sure he can figure out how it happened." She gave me a deadly look as he got off my lap, glaring daggers in my direction. Sensing the fight, I heaved a sigh and got up as well, flashing Fredrick an apologetic smile that he disregarded, and let Henrietta drag me around the corner of the building.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing! I had him just were I wanted!" she hissed between clenched teeth, poking me hard in the chest with a black fingernail. "You'll ruin everything!"

"Sorry I have a bit more modesty then liking my cock admired in public, I'm sure you wouldn't be thrilled if I went on about your pasty pale boobs being pierced and molestable, hm?" I answered with a faint, cocky grin that flustered her more as her face flamed red.

"At least I don't have my tongue pierced," she said darkly, as if it was the right comeback. It wasn't.

"From what I've heard, tongue rings are _very_ pleasurable."

She stepped close, skirt brushing my thighs as she ran a hand down my chest, fiddled with the belt buckle and stroked my groin through the material of my pants. "From what I know, you're too prude to have heard that."

"Don't touch me," I growled, but couldn't stop my body from reacting and throwing my head back, eyes closed. I didn't like it, but my dick did.

"Oh, why? I think this proves my point quite well."

I smiled, but it wasn't happy, nor was it feral. It held the lace of threat that made her step back and drop her hands. "Because what Simon says, you better fucking do." At that point in time she huffed and I heard her boots click on the ground as she stormed off to who knows where, 'cause I didn't. Running a hand through my hair I sighed and walked off, deep in thought, to find some inhabited place on campus to sit and talk to myself.

What I found was Mark, sprawled under a tree on his stomach, humming something to himself as he listened to his mp3 player and studied out of a chemistry textbook. Seeing no one else around I raised a brow, tilted my head and walked off the sidewalk into the barely-alive grass. A shadow falling over his book he looked up, a faint smile crossing his lips as he pulled out his earbuds and flipped the mp3 player off.

"My oh my, what's Simon doing by himself?"

Smirking, I sat down next to him, looking over the page he was studying. Limiting reagent conversions, ick, but why was he studying? He had the highest grade in the class, beating even Kyle by a million-fold. Shaking my head I looked at him from behind the thick-framed glasses and said:

"Not allowed to be by myself anymore?"

He gave me an amused look as he crammed his book inside his bag and sat up, stretching, cracking his knuckles, wrist, shoulders…I shuddered. "Usually you're with Henreitta, so it's interesting to see you running around alone."

"You sound disdainful."

Something like shock crossed his face before settling into wry amusement as he studied me with those intense, hazel eyes. It was unnerving, wondering what he saw, what went on in his head when he watched me, but passed as he looked up to the bright sky overhead.

"Why are you with Henrietta? There's no passion or even remote liking in the caresses, kisses. So why remain with someone you want to choke to death?"

I looked up at the sky as well, trying to find something beyond the swirling clouds, few birds passing overhead, but nothing seemed to jump out, like it did for Mark. "Image, I suppose," I answered, not about to tell him of the game we were playing, the blackmail she had on me.

"Image is more important then happiness? Interesting way you chose things," he said, flicking his gaze to me with a grim smile as he answered my unspoken question. "It's easy to see the tension behind the touches, if you know what you're looking for."

I just stared at him. Mark was a strange individual, the kid in the back of the class that only spoke when no one else had an intelligent answer, and studied the other students in a calculating manner. It was no doubt he knew how everyone react with each other, what their weaknesses were, who they were attracted too, because he was just the kind of person to watch and consider rather then act and be oblivious.

"And you would define said tension as?"

He just gave me a look as he shifted his weight, now kneeling in front of me instead of sitting. Long fingers found their way to my hair, entwining as he brushed it out of my face, gently sliding my glasses off and discarding them somewhere on the ground. Done with that duty, his hands went back to my face, sliding down the curve of my neck to rest gingerly on my shoulders, his hazel eyes drifted half-closed, a wry, sly smile crossing his lips.

"You're not tense now, albeit you're blushing like a sunuvabitch. Does that prove my point to your standards?"

It was only when he mentioned it did I feel the heat in my face as blood surfaced below the skin, heart skipped a pace as it thumped faster. It had never been this way with Henrietta, I always accepted her touches but mentally recoiled from the physical pleasure she could give. But Mark's simple teasing had me speechless and fumbling.

"I..uh..no? What point?"

He raised a brow, a thumb lifting my chin, green uncertain eyes meeting coy hazel ones. The smug incredulous bastard. "That you don't like Henrietta, duh."

It was my turn to give him a cocky look, brow raised, long black nail poking him just below the collar bone. "What, are you saying I like you?"

The answer wasn't vocalized, instead time seemed to crystallize, slow, as his lips met mine in a gentle but sure kiss. The first thing that registered in my mind was the warmth and tingly sensation, then shock as he pulled away, a crooked, warily smile passing him. I did't move, too intent on watching as he ran a hand through his curls and sighed, sitting back on the balls of his feet.

"Don't be such a _homophobe_ and speak, I beseech you."

I tried or words but my vocal cords refused, a croak escaping. He laughed, and seeing his intention to get up and leave me to my own devices, my hand shot out, wrapping around his wrist before it registered in my mind.

"What…what now?" I asked a bit nervously, voice a pitch higher then it normally was.

"Invite me to dinner and we'll talk it over then."

* * *

**A/N:** No worries, this isn't taking over Expo. This was written when my computer was dead and I only had access to my laptop, because I was going insane with boredom. It'll be updated after each Expo update, harhar. And yes, this is my OTP. Weird? Maybe, but don't penalize me for it :D 


End file.
